by Hazel Gaynor
Love each other and travel safely. I can’t wait to see you both very soon.
With all my love to you,
Violet
“Do you think Margaret will see us?” I asked, slipping the paper back into the envelope. “I can’t bear to disappoint Violet now.”
“I don’t know,” Madeleine replied. “But we’ll do our best.”
A knock at the door disturbed us. Madeleine answered it.
“For you,” she said, returning with a telegram.
I took it from her and sank onto the bed as I read the message.
Darling Clara. Arrived safely in Vienna. Can hardly wait to see you. Tell Madeleine she’ll be staying alone. I’ve reserved a suite for the two of us at the Hotel Brauner.
Charles
“What is it?” Madeleine asked as she sat beside me.
“It’s Charles. He’s in Austria.” I folded the telegram and placed it on the table. “I can’t put it off any longer, can I? I need to make a decision.”
She put her arm around my shoulder. “If you have to ask the question, I suspect you’ve already made your decision.”
She was right. I had.
I’d decided I wasn’t ready to settle into a life as Charles Hancock’s well-mannered, dutiful wife, or as anyone else’s for that matter. Marriage implied an end to Miss Clara Sommers, and she was only just beginning.
Part Three
Auf Wiedersehen
Violet
Veneto Estate, East Hampton, New York
April 1937
They tell me I must rest, that I must listen to the doctors, but I don’t find it easy to do. I want to be outside, to live the last of my days rather than watch them pass in a cycle of concerned faces and rattling pill bottles. I tell Celestine the boredom will kill me far quicker than the cancer. She offers a rueful smile and tells me I’m a terrible patient as she plumps my pillows. Everyone plumps my pillows. I think it gives them something to do, a way to feel useful.
“I’ll have to pay Henrietta double this week if you keep up this grumbling,” she says. “The poor girl.”
“Poor girl nothing,” I reply. “She enjoys my company. She likes my stories. She told me so.”
“I suspect she is just being polite,” Celestine remarks as she walks to the window and opens the shutters.
The light catches her hair in a way that reminds me of a Rossetti painting. Sometimes I love her so much I could burst. My surprise daughter, created with such passion, and yet the cause of such pain and distress. I catch glimpses of him sometimes, in her eyes and full lips. She took the news hard when I first told her about her real father, but her anger had faded quickly as Frank reassured her of his love for her, of the bond between them that would never be broken regardless of biology.
“Pfft. People spend too much time being polite,” I reply. “Saying the right thing. Doing the right thing. When you’re at the end of it all, what really matters is that you’ve been honest, with others, yes, but mostly with yourself.”
Celestine studies me a moment. “What is it, Mom? What’s bothering you?”
I fuss with the bed linen and then look her straight in the eye. “Clara’s wedding is what’s bothering me. I don’t care for that Hancock fellow. I don’t trust him. There. I’ve said it.”
She turns and folds her arms. “Yes. You most certainly have said it.” She lets out a long sigh. “Charles has his faults, but he’s smart, and handsome, and comes from a very good family. He gives Clara everything she could possibly want, and he’s clearly very taken with her. You’ve seen the way he looks at her.”
“The way he watches her, you mean. To make sure she’s not talking to another man, or having too much fun.”
Celestine rolls her eyes. “If she’s happy, then we should be, too.”
“If she’s happy, she has my blessing,” I add. “But it looks like a big ‘if’ from where I’m sitting.”
Celestine plumps my pillows again. “Anyway, it’s too late now. It’s all arranged. Now, I have some errands to run. Can I get you anything before I go?”
I think for a moment. “A glass of champagne, please. And a handsome young man. And the morning papers.”
She laughs, kisses my forehead, and says she’ll bring the papers.
“And the champagne,” I call after her. “The good stuff.”
I close my eyes and prop myself up in bed. I listen to the sound of the ocean beyond the window, the tide seeming to whisper the echo of distant secrets and difficult conversations. I think of Clara and Madeleine’s last stop in Vienna and know they will face another difficult conversation there, assuming they find Margaret.
My sister’s reaction to the news of my pregnancy was the worst.
She’d left Venice a month before me that summer in 1890, to return to her beloved music lessons. Soon, the society crowd would be planning their holiday parties and she’d wanted to be hired as a premier violinist. I’d stayed behind, lured by my love for Venice, and by the promise of spending another month with Matthias. We hadn’t meant to fall in love, but when you leave home and everything familiar behind, things don’t always go as planned. Still, it was my homecoming that I remember most. The urge to see my sister again, to tell her how wonderful my month with Matthias had been, how we’d fallen madly in love, and that it was the most thrilling time of my life. But Margaret was distracted, intent on her rehearsals.
“You’ll have forgotten all about Matthias Morelli by the fall,” she’d said. “It was a holiday romance, Violet. That’s all.”
Neither of us yet knew how wrong she was, that a new life was already blooming within me. The following months brought waves of nausea, missed periods, and an acid burn in my throat, confirming what I’d begun to suspect: I’d returned home carrying Matthias’s child.
It was Margaret I turned to first for help. I wanted her advice and the comfort only a sister could offer. But when I needed her the most, Margaret turned away from me, telling me I would ruin everything if I had the baby, as I’d told her I intended to.
“An unmarried mother! An illegitimate child! Don’t be ridiculous, Violet! Everyone will gossip and you’ll bring the family name into ruin. We’ll never be taken seriously again.”
She was right. Everyone gossiped, and one by one, all of Margaret’s carefully planned performances for the social season were canceled. As my stomach swelled and the reality of my condition could no longer be concealed, she could hardly bear to look at me. By Christmas that year, we were hardly speaking. I had the support of my mother, at least, if not of my father or my sister. And then there was Frank, my childhood friend; my soul mate. How willingly he’d seen the solution to my problem when he’d arrived with a Christmas basket, as he did every year.
“Marry me,” he’d said while we ate gingerbread on the boardwalk, wrapped in heavy coats and hats. “Marry me, Violet Lawson, and make me the happiest man in America. I’ll raise the child as my own, and who knows how many more we might have.”
I’ll never forget the look in his eyes: so calm, so tender. I wasn’t surprised by the marriage proposal—part of me had always known I would marry Frank—it was how sure he was that surprised me. When everyone else was accusing me of bringing the family name into disrepute and ruining their lives along with mine, Frank Bell simply asked me to marry him, and promised to love me and the child he would raise as his own.
Margaret left for Vienna before Celestine was born, intent on studying under one of the best violinists in Europe. She never returned to New York, and her letters home grew few and far between. Even Frank knew it was a subject he shouldn’t bring up. Birthdays and Christmases and other anniversaries came and went with a quiet wondering: What was she doing? Did she ever think of me at all?
I picture her bright smile now, her long chestnut hair swirling around her shoulders as we bent over candlelight in our bedroom as children, telling stories and laughing, invoking our mother’s anger for being up well past our bedtime. The pain of her rejecti
on still hurts after all these years, and as my final days approach, a longing to see her once more is stronger than ever.
I wonder if Clara and Madeleine are getting along, if they’ve managed to find those I needed to say my goodbyes to. For them, it isn’t so much about the journey—the miles traveled or the sights they might have seen—it has always been about learning to understand each other better, to let go of old disagreements and embrace a new connection. I know the pain of losing a sister and can’t bear for history to repeat itself.
A knock at the bedroom door interrupts my thoughts.
“Come in. I’m awake,” I call.
Henrietta carries in a lunch tray and slides it carefully onto my lap. The fragrance of chicken broth and vegetables wafts around me and for the first time in days, I feel hungry.
“I brought the newspapers,” she says, “and one more thing.” She steps from the room and returns a moment later. “A chilled glass of champagne for madam.”
I smile and lift the glass to my lips. The bubbles tickle my nose.
“What day is it?” I ask.
“Friday. The girls will be home in little more than a week’s time.”
Their impending return gives me strength.
I finish the bowl of broth and drink half the glass of champagne as I pick idly through the newspapers. But one headline in the New York Herald Tribune makes me stop.
Hancock Enterprises: Shocking Human Cost of New Development
Exclusive by M. Sommers
I read on, devouring the words of Madeleine’s shocking exposé about Charles Hancock’s heartless plans, and while I know it will hurt Clara deeply, it is a truth far better exposed now than later.
“Atta girl, Maddie,” I whisper, raising my glass in a toast to my clever granddaughter. “Atta girl.”
Maddie
Vienna
April 1937
I watched Venice slide away as the train carried us toward Austria and our elusive great-aunt Margaret. It seemed impossible that our trip had gone so quickly, and I found myself wishing we could be on the road longer, exploring more of Europe together. And yet, as the train raced toward the distant snowcapped mountains, my thoughts turned to the kind gentleman from the Queen Mary, Mr. Klein, and his palpable fear of what might be waiting for him in Austria. I also remembered Matthias’s parting words: Be careful in Austria. There are sure to be Nazi soldiers afoot, and if the rumors are to be believed, they look for any reason to cause trouble.
I’d read several German newspapers and reports about the Nazi Party, highlighting passages and taking notes in the evenings, trying to understand Hitler’s ideology. His persecution of Jewish people was chilling. He’d even stated outright the very thing many Austrians feared: that the German-speaking country should be annexed to Germany. I thought about the fascist propaganda pamphlets and antifascist posters I’d collected in Venice, and wondered how long it would be before Hitler or Mussolini made a move.
The train rattled on through the night, and at dawn, I awoke with a start. It had been a restless sleep in the cramped quarters of the express train we’d been forced to take when we’d changed our plans. As Clara slid from her bunk, she glanced down at her dress and laughed. Neither of us had changed into our nightwear, and now she looked like a wadded-up tissue.
I stretched and stood, wondering if Daniel had slept better in his bunk a few cars away. It was fitting that he would complete the journey with us, although it was far nicer not to be followed in secret.
I peered through the window to catch the sunrise. We had already crossed the border from Italy into Austria, but still had some way to go, Vienna being closer to Austria’s borders with Czechoslovakia and Hungary than with Italy. Thick forest stretched over the alpine mountains, the peaks still dusted with snow. In the distance, a lake glistened beneath the morning sun. Austria was so much more inviting than I’d expected and entirely unlike the other places we’d visited. I’d pictured the country as cold and sterile, not lush and beautiful and alive. I regretted instantly that our journey would soon end, without much time to explore.
Eventually, we arrived at the train station in Vienna. As I stepped onto the platform and stretched my aching limbs, Daniel appeared and wished me good morning.
He took his own luggage and helped the porter with Clara’s enormous trunks.
“I’ll see you at the hotel, later?” he asked.
I nodded. “We can make a plan for lunch or something?”
“Perfect.” He planted a kiss on my cheek, eliciting a smile from Clara and a warm flush across my face.
Daniel was gracious enough to give me and Clara the time we needed together, and although Clara enjoyed teasing me about my boyfriend, I was keen to prove to her that I was no different for enjoying his company, and his affections.
The taxicab set out for the hotel Violet had arranged for us, Clara having firmly ignored the message from Charles and his instruction for her to abandon me and join him at a different hotel. I thought of nothing but a strong cup of coffee and a brisk walk through the city to shake off my tiredness. Traveling, I’d discovered, was filled with adventure and excitement, but it also wore me out.
“Do you think we should send a telegram to Margaret to warn her before we visit tomorrow?” I asked. “As a courtesy? Maybe she’ll be more likely to see us if we give her time to prepare.”
Clara shook her head. “I think we should go without any warning. She’ll know what we’ve come to discuss and may turn us away. Violet warned us this would be the most difficult of the three visits. She hasn’t seen Margaret for so many years. Remember how strained Violet said it was between them when Margaret had last visited America?”
“She doesn’t sound like the type to bury grievances easily, does she?” I said.
“She doesn’t, but I hope we can persuade her.”
Lost in thought, I watched the city of Vienna speed by through the window: the half-timbered houses with lattice frameworks; the famed Theater an der Wien, where Beethoven’s Fifth and Sixth Symphonies had once premiered; and the lush Danube River that twisted through the heart of the city in one long, green-gray ribbon. I couldn’t help noticing how different the architecture was from the buildings in France and Italy. I imagined Daniel would be noticing the same.
Daniel. It surprised me, the way my thoughts turned so easily to him. I thoroughly enjoyed our conversations, relishing his thoughts about topics from working women to the best plate of pasta in New York. His view of the world was bright, optimistic. He inspired me, but I worried what the future would bring when our lives returned to normal and we went our separate ways—and that was only a few days away. I wasn’t certain where Daniel would be in that mix, or if I even wanted him to be a part of things in any real way. Perhaps this was a holiday romance, just as Matthias had been for Violet, and I should leave it at that.
When we reached the Freyung, home to some of the oldest Christmas markets in the world, several policemen stepped in front of the flow of traffic and promptly set up wooden barriers.
Our driver came to a sudden stop.
Across the square, a makeshift stage had been set up, and around it, dozens of people were gathering.
“What’s happening?” Clara asked.
“It looks like some sort of show,” I replied, squinting to make out the signs.
The crowd parted, making way for a row of soldiers in gray uniforms, marching in unison. In an orderly fashion, they stationed themselves on either side of the stage.
I leaned forward in my seat. “Are they Nazi soldiers?”
At my question, the driver glanced over his shoulder and in heavily accented English said, “Yes. The Nazis. They meet, stop traffic. Make a mess of things.”
I returned my attention to the scene outside, fascinated to see one of the rallies I’d read so much about. The crowd pushed closer to the stage as two soldiers climbed the steps. In their hands, they raised a red-and-white flag with a black swastika, the symbol of the Nazi Part
y. A sense of injustice burned through me as I thought about everything I’d read, and how they didn’t accept Jewish people, or anyone else who failed to support their cause. This wasn’t even their country, and they were trying to stake their claim.
Our driver swore under his breath as policemen blew whistles and gestured aggressively for us to turn around. We managed to make a U-turn, narrowly missing the wooden barriers. As we rode away from the square, I turned to peer out of the back window.
In that instant, the roar of voices reverberated against the buildings behind us, and the crowd saluted as several more soldiers made their way to the stage.
The sight left a bad taste in my mouth and yet I itched to document what we’d seen. I glanced at Clara. Her face was etched with concern.
“That was disturbing,” she said.
“Very,” I agreed, my mind already racing.
It had taken all my resolve not to rush from the car and see what was happening up close. If I came across another rally, I would do exactly that.
A somber mood settled over us as we drove the rest of the way to the hotel, contemplating what we’d just seen. The headlines I’d read for months were no longer words on a page, but real. Dangerous. And whether or not Clara read the papers as often as I did, she sensed it, too. I could see it in her clenched jaw.
As the taxicab pulled up outside our hotel, I turned to her.
“How about we unpack our things and then go for a walk? See a little of the city and clear our heads.”
“That sounds perfect.”
Grateful to be staying some distance away from the Nazi rally we’d just seen, we enjoyed a long walk through the wide avenues and pretty side streets, and beside the river, stopping to buy gifts for Violet and Mother. We ended our first evening in Vienna with a satisfying dinner of bratwurst and sauerkraut, and a glass of slivovitz, a popular plum brandy. In the morning, we would visit Margaret, and while I looked forward to meeting our elusive great-aunt, I found myself on edge. The pinnacle of our trip had come at last, and I worried it wouldn’t bring about the reunion Violet so dearly hoped for.
